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THE SCOTCH PINE'S MISSION.
BY GRACE L. TAYLOR.
"We have some new neighbors, I see,"
said Mr. Baker to me one morning
in spring as we met at the end of the rows.
We had been planting corn in adjoining
fields, but stopped to indulge in a neighborly
chat while our teams took some needed rest.
"Is that so? Where?" I replied.
"Over on the old Whitaker place. I saw
a 'schooner' go by yesterday, a dilapidated
affair it was too, and this morning there
was smoke rising from the chimney. That
is all I know about them. Wonder if the
Whitakers have come back? Well, they
were a queer set! Never could see how such
shiftless people manage to live anyway.
Guess they felt a little above us folks, never
seemed to care to make our acquaintance.
They came from York State, while we were
from Misouri. Then the way they disappeared,
— one day here, the next gone and no
one the wiser. I believe they were n't all
right. People who are fair and square
don't leave a country in that way."
John Baker was a kind man, but he loved
his bit of gossip as well as any deacon's wife,
and as he glibly talked of the affairs of his
former neighbors, I looked over to the west
a mile and a half, where a little old shanty
again showed signs of life. Near the door
stood the white-covered emigrant wagon,
the pioneer's "limited," and between it and
the door I could see dark objects moving
about.
"We must go over and see them," I said,
as we again started our teams. "If they
are pleasant and agreeable people, we shall
be the gainers, if not, why we can leave
them alone, that's all."
That evening I dutifully related to Jeannette
this bit of news, and then — forgot it in
the rush and hurry of spring work, for we
were poor, and, like all our neighbors, trying
to get a home in one of our Western prairie
States. Nor did I think of it again until
one evening several weeks afterwards, when
Jeannette said to me, as I came to supper,
"I've been over to see our new neighbors.
Their name is Jackson, and they came from
New York. And—and—Robert," her voice
trembled, "they have a little Alice," and I
saw her lips quiver as her eyes rested upon
a little mound within sight from the door.
Six years before, when we were about to
leave home and friends for a dwelling place
in the great West, Jeannette had said, "I
must take something from the old farm,
something that I can care for and watch
grow, something to keep me from getting
homesick." So we dug up a small Scotch
pine from the door-yard, packed it carefully
in damp moss, and brought it with us. In
those early days I used to tell her, jokingly,
that she thought more of that tree than of
any other thing on the place, myself included;
and now I know she did, since that
summer day, three years before, when we
had laid little Alice at its feet to await the
resurrection morn. The faithful mother-
heart had never recovered from that agonizing
blow, and ever since all children had
been precious in her sight, but one with Alice's
name was doubly dear.
"They are very, very poor," she continued
when her voice was once more under control,
"and the little girl is nearly eight years old,
but she is a cripple. She is not a handsome

Images from this collection may be downloaded for non-commercial educational and research purposes on the condition that The University of South Dakota, Archives and Special Collections is credited as the source. For permission to use a particular item for any other purpose, such as publishing, video production, exhibits, product presentations, interior design, or advertising, you must contact The University of South Dakota, Archives and Special Collections. The user is responsible for all issues of copyright.

THE SCOTCH PINE'S MISSION.
BY GRACE L. TAYLOR.
"We have some new neighbors, I see,"
said Mr. Baker to me one morning
in spring as we met at the end of the rows.
We had been planting corn in adjoining
fields, but stopped to indulge in a neighborly
chat while our teams took some needed rest.
"Is that so? Where?" I replied.
"Over on the old Whitaker place. I saw
a 'schooner' go by yesterday, a dilapidated
affair it was too, and this morning there
was smoke rising from the chimney. That
is all I know about them. Wonder if the
Whitakers have come back? Well, they
were a queer set! Never could see how such
shiftless people manage to live anyway.
Guess they felt a little above us folks, never
seemed to care to make our acquaintance.
They came from York State, while we were
from Misouri. Then the way they disappeared,
— one day here, the next gone and no
one the wiser. I believe they were n't all
right. People who are fair and square
don't leave a country in that way."
John Baker was a kind man, but he loved
his bit of gossip as well as any deacon's wife,
and as he glibly talked of the affairs of his
former neighbors, I looked over to the west
a mile and a half, where a little old shanty
again showed signs of life. Near the door
stood the white-covered emigrant wagon,
the pioneer's "limited," and between it and
the door I could see dark objects moving
about.
"We must go over and see them," I said,
as we again started our teams. "If they
are pleasant and agreeable people, we shall
be the gainers, if not, why we can leave
them alone, that's all."
That evening I dutifully related to Jeannette
this bit of news, and then — forgot it in
the rush and hurry of spring work, for we
were poor, and, like all our neighbors, trying
to get a home in one of our Western prairie
States. Nor did I think of it again until
one evening several weeks afterwards, when
Jeannette said to me, as I came to supper,
"I've been over to see our new neighbors.
Their name is Jackson, and they came from
New York. And—and—Robert," her voice
trembled, "they have a little Alice," and I
saw her lips quiver as her eyes rested upon
a little mound within sight from the door.
Six years before, when we were about to
leave home and friends for a dwelling place
in the great West, Jeannette had said, "I
must take something from the old farm,
something that I can care for and watch
grow, something to keep me from getting
homesick." So we dug up a small Scotch
pine from the door-yard, packed it carefully
in damp moss, and brought it with us. In
those early days I used to tell her, jokingly,
that she thought more of that tree than of
any other thing on the place, myself included;
and now I know she did, since that
summer day, three years before, when we
had laid little Alice at its feet to await the
resurrection morn. The faithful mother-
heart had never recovered from that agonizing
blow, and ever since all children had
been precious in her sight, but one with Alice's
name was doubly dear.
"They are very, very poor," she continued
when her voice was once more under control,
"and the little girl is nearly eight years old,
but she is a cripple. She is not a handsome

Images from this collection may be downloaded for non-commercial educational and research purposes on the condition that The University of South Dakota, Archives and Special Collections is credited as the source. For permission to use a particular item for any other purpose, such as publishing, video production, exhibits, product presentations, interior design, or advertising, you must contact The University of South Dakota, Archives and Special Collections. The user is responsible for all issues of copyright.